


Sufficient for Happiness

by blessedharlot



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Career Change, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, On-Page Panic Attacks, Panic, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma Recovery, Wholeness After Trauma, self-soothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedharlot/pseuds/blessedharlot
Summary: Chris manages his head, his history, and his high ideals. His new chosen posting may be inspiring panic attacks, but it’s still a good posting. Probably.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Sufficient for Happiness

Chris woke with a carriage full of bricks sitting on his chest, a sharp lance of fear bolting through him. He couldn’t tell if the screaming was in his head or outside of it. Finding no immediate control over his limbs, he fought desperately to understand his surroundings. 

His head was a deep sea storm, chaotic and unanchored. No up or down, no air to breathe that didn’t turn to water. He would die.

What had happened? Was he in prison? Was one of the children hurt? Where was Nic?? He marshalled all his strength, and managed a few seconds of focusing his eyes straight ahead.

_“You are lying in a bed, at home,”_ his own handwriting informed him from the ceiling. 

In bed. At home.

Chris was suddenly, intently aware of his own shirt stuck to his chest, drenched with sweat, clinging and suffocating him. He would die from this shirt strangling him, he knew it. He groped for his own neck and yet he found no obstruction. Nothing wrapped tight but his own fears. Nothing under his fingertips but his own clammy skin. His pulse raced frighteningly in his ears.

_You've woken up with a spell of fear upon you_ , a tiny voice said, from somewhere distant. He strained to hear it. _That’s all it is. It's happened before. Breathe._

**_No! Can’t breathe!_ **

_Can’t or won’t?_

**_Can’t! Won’t!_ **

_Stop, Christopher._

**_CAN’T STOP._ **

_Then just notice._

That was him, the quiet voice. It was his rational mind trying to help him, and it was right that this had happened before, and it was _so irritatingly calm_. He’d really rather the quiet voice shut the hell up and leave him here to die in peace, as he was so clearly about to do, as he still would do.

_Nic!_ He whispered to himself.

Nic, Chris finally realized, was still asleep, arm flung across him. Nic lay very still.

**_Nic’s in danger!_ **

Chris guessed from Nic’s warmth and from the soft current of air brushing Chris’ shoulder that Nic was just fine. But he gingerly checked Nic's pulse anyway. No harm in checking. Chris discovered Nic’s heartbeat was strong and calm, a stark contrast to his own. 

**_Don’t wake Nic!_ **

_Ah, there we are. Yes. A task to do. Refrain from waking Nic. Let’s think on how to do that. Not flailing around like an idiot would be a start._

That finally began to quell the storm, just a fraction. The imaginary weight on his chest lifted ever so slightly, and his rational thought caught a foothold on the deck. Panic still crashed and poured through him, but Chris had a tenuous hold on some sea legs. 

_Task at hand: survive the next few minutes in a way that doesn’t wake Nic._

He looked up again, soothed by his note to himself, and by the pins Nic had used to post it to the ceiling. _You are lying in a bed, at home._ He didn’t recall the nightmare, but this storm could only be an echo of some other place and time... past pain or future fears. His body was here now, Nic slack next to him. Chris shifted his attention to his own hand, the one that had already found Nic’s sculpted shoulder muscle. Chris dropped all of his awareness into the skin of that hand. His fingertips were numb with fear, but he could feel Nic’s sun-drenched skin warming his palm. 

_In a bed. At home, right now. Body here._

**_Danger!_ **

Chris wouldn’t argue with himself. The storm in his head struggled mightily, but he had some footing just now, and he decided to stand aside and let the panicked voice blow itself out. Chris flashed just for an instant on one of Nic's siblings - or perhaps one of their spouses - discussing someone’s cranky child at a family gathering. _Just let him wear himself out. He’ll sleep better._ Maybe a part of Chris’ head already needed a nap.

Chris reached for a very careful focus, and tried to bring to mind the list of occupations he and Nic had so assiduously cultivated for distractions and calming influences at a time like this. But none were springing to mind just yet. Rather than struggle, he kept a placid but firm hold of the small spot of calm in his head, and considered and rejected several versions of taking Nic into his arms, or burrowing closer to him, and letting his frantic quality bleed away into the bed as he did so.

That wouldn’t do. That might disturb Nic.

**_Mustn't burden Nic!_ **

_Oh, do fuck off. That wasn’t my point at all._

Chris sighed, allowing himself only a moment of exasperation. It accomplished nothing to get impatient. The fear would resolve whenever the fear resolved. No need to sink the whole ship.

_… but I can give myself more to do than not wake Nic up._

Chris watched Nic for a moment, and picked the gap of space between his inhalation and exhalation to curl Nic’s arm down to his side. Nic shifted his weight off Chris, still in his sleep.

Chris lifted himself off the bed, and as he put his feet to the floor, his brain did another roll through terrible weather.

_Breathe_ , he told himself. _Keep patience. Storms pass. Wait it out._

  
  
Twenty minutes later, Chris was on the patio, standing on one foot. 

An aborted attempt at tea had turned to pacing about the house, which lead to pacing on the patio in the pre-dawn air, which evolved into a spontaneous experiment. Chris’ aching muscles recalled an old, calming memory -- an old set of martial training forms he used years ago. A flowing sequence of poses, stretches and engagement of strength, the forms gave his muscles something else to remember besides the tension. It lent him a way to siphon off excess energy and simultaneously calm his head… or at least calm that part he had any conscious control over.

_I am on the patio. Moving my arms and legs._

By the time Nic had awakened, Chris had gentled himself through most of the poses, the stiffness of the fear and of the morning now softening. The storm still battered away at some part of his head, but it was contained now… a steady squall beating against a secure wall, with most of Chris inside and dry. The better part of his head was back under his control.

It was a weary way to start the day. But it was what it was. He continued his familiar movements, noting their soothing influence. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw Nic’s alert stance for a moment in the doorway… but Chris wanted to complete this sequence. He wanted closure on this memory, on this bit of tranquility. He imagined he didn’t look too worrisome in Nic’s eyes… certainly not by their historical standards of his insomnia. He kept his body moving, kept completing the patterns... old strength and new strain commingling. And he felt himself slip easily past the last gales of panic into a smooth, only slightly numb tranquility. 

As he reached the end, he completed the last form, bowed to whatever god had lent him this scrap of peace, and turned toward the house, intent on finding Nic. He didn’t have to go far, as Nic was just then bringing him a tray of fresh tea under the now dimly glowing, rosy sky.

Chris met him at the table, and when Nic had sat the tray down, he reached for Chris and enveloped him in a deep, full, all-encompassing hug.

“You’re up early,” Nic whispered, stroking Chris’ hair. “Rough night?”

Chris hummed at the touch. “Rough waking. Better now.”

Chris felt Nic bite back a loving admonishment that Chris had allowed him to sleep. They’d had that argument enough, and Nic knew better than to say it aloud anymore, even if he felt it. It was good fortune that Chris could usually manage his own head these days, without deleterious effects; Chris wouldn’t ignore that progress when it was possible to capitalize on it.

They moved out of each others’ arms only enough to gather their tea and find a familiar tandem curl on the nearby bench, where they settled into each other and sat quietly. Chris noticed the changing light, and watched as the sky gathered the day further into itself, a mirror of his own collecting of his scattered soul this morning.

They’d hardly spoken, both preferring the quiet of the early morning, until Chris felt heavy with what he assumed was the real reason for this spell. It wasn’t a spontaneous nightmare. Today was a significant day, and Chris knew he was grappling with his own recent choices even as he slept.

"Am I doing the right thing, Nic?" Chris twined his fingers in Nic’s. "Or am I putting people in danger for my own ego?"

Nic chuckled. "You didn't exactly select the most ego-stroking posting for yourself that you could have."

“You know what I mean. ‘Archivist Emeritus.’ What a trap. The role is mine to make, isn’t it? I may select my own responsibilities, for the most part. That kind of scope, however, I…”

Nic ran a hand through Chris’ hair, curled softly with sweat, and Chris paused to let the tenderness of it flood through him. It replaced some of his weariness with Nic’s ardent warmth.

“Perhaps I've chosen poorly again," Chris finally said.

"My love, this has been one of the most surprising decisions I've watched you make. That alone has value. And at the very least, it has me curious what will happen next.”

Chris smiled ruefully.

“The other concern is this,” Chris offered.

“Hm?”

“If we're honest about my make-up as a man… we must face my potential for putting myself in unnecessary danger."

Nic’s brow furrowed, and he tilted his head in a query for further explanation. 

Chris took a deep breath, and swallowed. "My heart, at the least, will be at risk again. You know I can't be trusted with these sorts of tasks. Not fully. I think that’s abundantly clear now."

Nic smiled.

“That isn’t the very reason you’ve done this?” Nic said. “Because your heart is in it?”

Chris cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Well, you’re a fool,” Chris said without heat, “useless for advice-giving, we know that much now, at the least.”

Nic grinned, and pulled Chris into another deep, restorative embrace.

_I am drinking tea. And touching Nic._

  
  


\-----

  
  


Later that day, there was a knock at Chris’ office door. (There had been a great deal of arguing among several parties as to whether Chris would get an office where it was possible for anyone to simply knock on the door. But in the end, his strong and vociferous preference for a lack of pomp had prevailed, and he was ensconced in a relatively modest Lighthouse office.)

This knock was, in fact, also about the issue of security, though of a different kind. His new security detail had no doubt just arrived to escort him to his new posting.

“Enter.”

The door opened at a snail’s pace.

“I did instruct you to enter,” Chris snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Rolleson stepped in crisply, but spoke with a confused air. “Do you not have a guard on your office?”

“That conversation is over and done with, Rolleson, keep up. If Lighthouse security is sufficient for others, it’s certainly sufficient for me.”

“Yes, Archivist.”

“Absolutely not.” Chris winced. “There is no need for confusion. I am very firmly ‘Scholar Wolfe,’ ‘Scholar,’ or, on certain deserving occasions, ‘you bastard.’”

“Yes, Scholar.”

Chris gathered himself and gave the young man a once-over. “You’re looking well, Lieutenant Rolleson.”

"Thank you, sir.” Troll waited for Chris to exit his office, then fell into close step next to him.

“So, what did you do wrong to garner this babysitting assignment?” Chris asked him.

Rolleson grinned. “Oh, I think it has a certain excitement to it, don’t you, sir?”

“So, Nic put you up to it.”

“It won’t do me any harm.”

“It’s a terrible career trajectory and you know it.”

“I have something exciting that’s been offered me, but it won’t be ready until this project is already over.”

“Ah, good then,” Chris replied with a nod. “I’m only slowing you down, not derailing your future. I’ll accept that.” 

“May I speak freely, sir?”

“For the moment, yes.”

“The bigger question on my mind is why you’re doing this, Scholar.”

“Is that the bigger question, then?” Chris aimed for a tone of complete disinterest, and significant distance, but he imagined he didn’t quite make it. Troll wasn’t one of the children, but the truth was, Chris respected him. Troll meant a great deal to Nic. Chris imagined Nic saw a lot of himself in the young man. And Troll had always managed Chris’ sour moods with more aplomb than Chris ever anticipated, even when Troll stayed with them briefly. Chris could indulge him a bit on personal matters.

“I thought you'd be eager to get back to research,” Troll continued, flagging down a carriage for them on the outskirts of Lighthouse security.

Ah. But how to answer that. How to explain the completeness of that particular rupture. The size of the internal demise. And the complexity of the end result.

They both climbed into a carriage, and it rolled toward their assignment.

Had his enemies simply broken him _less_ , Chris might have been less equipped to get where he now was. Had they not dragged him through the depths of the underworld, had they not demanded such a cost, had they not extracted so much from him that they’d engaged a soul-deep transaction, Chris might not have arrived back at the land of the living, regardless of the state of his heartbeat. The benefit of such obliteration was a strange freedom to the one who now existed on the other side of it. It bestowed on him an effective rebirth. They were foolish to leave Nic alive. With Nic, he had everything he’d ever wanted as he cowered dead in a tomb. What a dangerous way to leave an animal… stripped down only to what’s indestructible. _What was the resurrected man from Nic’s scripture? The ordinary one, not the savior. Lazarus, yes._ Except that resurrection was a gift of healing. The generosity of a god. The unearned love of someone inhumanly pure. 

Which force was it that brought Chris to this land where he resided now, he wondered… the payment demanded of him, or the unfailingly generous love of Nic? Perhaps both. Perhaps his soul was bought twice over.

As he pondered his metaphysical debts, he realized how long he’d kept Troll waiting for his answer. _Nightmares are turning me poetical again_ , he thought.

“The Research Scholar is gone.” Chris spoke matter-of-factly, with determination. “And with that absence, there is a freedom… for those brave enough to embrace it.”

Troll smiled. “I’ve never once seen you short on bravery, Scholar.”

“Well. Then perhaps, I’ll return to field work someday. When I'm needed. But for now, this is only the commitment of a few months posting, as you say.”

“Suitable to spend our time,” Troll said with a decisive nod.

“It’s a gift to have the time to spend, don’t you think, Rolleson?”

“Yes, Scholar.”

  
  


\-----

  
  


The carriage stopped at their destination.

“Here we are. Let's see what we're facing,” Chris muttered. He raised a skeptical eyebrow toward the building, and saw it inspire a good-natured smile from Rolleson.

Chris walked with purpose through the train station, and as he arrived at the platform where the train had dropped off its shipment of postulants, he may have deliberately shifted from walking with purpose into more of a glowering sweep. He would neither confirm nor deny such a deliberation to a third party.

The crowd of children - and all the gods help him, they were children - were excitedly murmuring and glancing around, until they saw Chris. A hush fell over the postulant class, then. Some stood straighter. Some slumped down in a poor attempt to hide from his gaze. Some were frozen in place. Some fidgeted with the growing tension.

“You, then,” Chris said loudly, but calmly, slowly examining each one in turn. “You are the ones with the gall to approach the Great Library of Alexandria and think you have something to offer.”

He looked into their eyes, and saw infants. Baby birds that would claw for masticated food. He saw naivete and eagerness and fear. He saw reflections of his own children, in the first days he had met each one. Scrawny Jess. Eager Thomas. Cagey Morgan.

_There, in the crowd now. That one has Obscurist powers_. Chris could see the pale ghost of it written on his skin. Bold of him to come to Alexandria, where the child had only a fresh, new, barely-tested promise that they wouldn’t abduct him from all he knew in his own chosen life, and reduce him to a breeder and a talent. That boldness was worth noting.

“Most of you will be denied what you seek here,” Chris continued, “and with good reason. The Library takes only those with a pathological need to give of themselves for a greater cause. And only those who master great genius to do it. Extraordinary inventors, engineers, diplomats, researchers, some of the most brilliant minds in the world have stood where you stand now, and have come to the Library to serve it.”

Could he recall where his own children had stood on this platform? Glain was nearby him, he thought, standing at attention. Dario had been in the back, his gall not kicked out of him yet and still obscuring his strength. Khalila stood attentive, toward the center, but didn’t yet hide all the fear in her eyes, if Chris remembered correctly.

“But then I’m almost certainly speaking over your heads.” Chris returned to this group before him, this present moment, and wondered who he had in front of him, and what they would become. “You can’t know what awaits you.”

_Chris, you have the same foundational skills for this that I do,_ Nic had said. _Observation. Assessment. Attention. You look at who you have in front of you, same as me. See who they truly are, and accept no less. You’re already a master of the second part of that._

“I am Scholar Christopher Wolfe. I am now your proctor. And if you haven’t heard, I turn out rare specimens of genius from my tutelage. If you understand you’re unworthy of following in the footsteps of giants, then by all means, reenter the train cars you just left, and save us all the time. Should you be foolish enough to think yourself fit for what’s to come, then follow me to the carriages. And may your gods have mercy on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wolfe's approach to self-management here explores the overlap of Greek Stoicism and Zen influences, particularly how the latter can frame one's approach to chronic illness. Some of his strategizing borrows directly from Toni Bernhard's _How to be Sick_. The title is a reference to the aims of Stoic thinkers, which I imagine would have had their own unique influence on pre-Rome Wolfe.


End file.
